CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

BY  ROBERT  HERRICK 


NORMAL  SfcHOOt 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALUX 


•U 
-o  19 
MAY  2  •"."'' 


DFC 


JUN6    1945 


THE   CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 


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Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 
The  Perfect  Tribute 
The  Lifted  Bandage 
The  Courage  of 

the  Commonplace 
The  Counsel  Assigned 

Maltbie  Davenport  Babcock 
The  Success  of  Defeat 

Katharine  Holland  Brown 
The  Messenger 

Richard  Harding  Davis 
The  Consul 
The  Boy  Scout 

Marion  Harland 

Looking  Westward 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Master  of  the  Inn 
The  Conscript  Mother 

[Frederick  Land i a 

The  Angel  of  Lonesome  Hill 

Francis  E.  Leupp 

A  Day  with  Father 

Alice  Duer  Miller 
Things 

Thomas  Nelson  Pale 

The  Stranger's  Pew 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

A  Christmas  Sermon 
Prayers  Written  at  Vailima 
Ma  Triplex 
Father  Damicn 

Isobel  Strong 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Henry  van  Dyke 

School  of  Life 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas 

The  Sad  Shepherd 

The  First  Christmas  Tree 


'Five  minutes  at  the  most  I  had  with  him  there  by  the  side 
of  the  highroad.  .  .  ."  [Page  95 


THE 

CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

BY 

Robert  Herrick 

Author  of  "  The  Master  of  the  Inn  " 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1916 


29383 


Copyright,    1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  April,  1916 


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(  • . . •  ^         ,    c.  •  * 

THE 

CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 


WHEN  I  met  the  signora  at 
the  tram  station  that  May 
morning  she  was  evidently 
troubled  about  something  which  was 
only  partly  explained  by  her  mur 
mured  excuse,   "a  sleepless  night." 
We  were  to  cross  the  Campagna  to 
one  of  the  little  towns  in  the  Alba 
nian  hills,  where  young  Maironi  was 
temporarily  stationed  with  his  regi 
ment.  If  we  had  good  luck  and  hap 
pened  upon  an  indulgent  officer,  the 
mother  might  get  sight  of  her  boy 
for  a  few  minutes.  All  the  way  over 
[i] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  flowering  Campagna,  with  the 
blue  hills  swimming  on  the  horizon 
before  us,  the  signora  was  unusually 
taciturn,  seemingly  indifferent  to  the 
beauty  of  the  day,  and  the  wonder 
ful  charm  of  the  Italian  spring,  to 
which  she  was  always  so  lyrically  re 
sponsive  on  our  excursions.  When  a 
great  dirigible  rose  into  the  blue  air 
above  our  heads,  like  a  huge  silver 
fish,  my  companion  gave  a  slight 
start,  and  I  divined  what  was  in  her 
mind — the  imminence  of  war,  which 
had  been  threatening  to  engulf  Italy 
for  many  months.  It  was  that  fear 
which  had  destroyed  her  customary 
gayety,  the  indomitable  cheerfulness 
of  the  true  Latin  mother  that  she 
was. 

"It  is  coming,"  she  sighed,  glanc 
ing  up  at  the  dirigible.  "It  will  not 

[2] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

be  long  now  before  we  shall  know 
—only  a  few  days." 
And  to  the  ignorant  optimism  of 
my  protest  she  smiled  sadly,  with 
the  fatalism  that  women  acquire  in 
countries  of  conscription.  It  was  fu 
tile  to  combat  with  mere  theory  and 
logic  this  conviction  of  a  mother's 
heart.  Probably  the  signora  had  over 
heard  some  significant  word  which 
to  her  sensitive  intelligence  was  more 
real,  more  positive  than  all  the  sub 
tle  reasonings  at  the  Consulta.  The 
sphinx-like  silence  of  ministers  and 
diplomats  had  not  been  broken :  there 
was  nothing  new  in  the  "situation." 
The  newspapers  were  as  wordily 
empty  of  fact  as  ever.  And  yet  this 
morning  for  the  first  time  Signora 
Maironi  seemed  convinced  against 
her  will  that  war  was  inevitable. 

[3] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

These  last  days  there  had  been  a 
similar  change  in  the  mood  of  the 
Italian  public,  not  to  be  fully  ex 
plained  by  any  of  the  rumors  flying 
about  Rome,  by  the  sudden  exodus 
of  Germans  and  Austrians,  by  any 
thing  other  than  that  mysterious 
sixth  sense  which  enables  humanity, 
like  wild  animals,  to  apprehend  un 
known  dangers.  Those  whose  lives 
and  happiness  are  at  stake  seem  to 
divine  before  the  blow  falls  what  is 
about  to  happen.  .  .  .  For  the  first 
time  I  began  to  believe  that  Italy 
might  really  plunge  into  the  deep 
gulf  at  which  her  people  had  so  long 
gazed  in  fascinated  suspense.  There 
are  secret  signs  in  a  country  like 
Italy,  where  much  is  hidden  from 
the  stranger.  Signora  Maironi  knew. 
She  pointed  to  some  soldiers  waiting 
'  [4] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

at  a  station  and  observed:  "They 
have  their  marching-kit,  and  they 
are  going  north!" 

We  talked  of  other  things  while  the 
tram  crept  far  up  above  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  slowly  circled  the  green 
hillsides,  until  we  got  down  at  the 
dirty  little  gray  town  of  Genzano, 
where  Enrico  Maironi's  regiment  had 
been  sent.  There  were  no  barracks. 
The  soldiers  were  quartered  here 
and  there  in  old  stone  buildings. 
We  could  see  their  boyish  faces  at 
the  windows  and  the  gray  uniform 
of  the  granatieri  in  the  courtyards. 
It  seemed  a  hopeless  task  to  find  the 
signora's  boy,  until  a  young  lieu 
tenant  to  whom  the  mother  ap 
pealed  offered  to  accompany  us  in 
our  search.  He  explained  that  the 
[51 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

soldiers  had  to  be  kept  shut  up  in 
their  quarters  because  they  were 
stoned  by  the  inhabitants  when  they 
appeared  on  the  streets.  They  were 
a  tough  lot  up  here  in  the  hills,  he 
said,  and  they  were  against  the  war. 
That  was  why,  I  gathered,  the  gren 
adiers  had  been  sent  thither  from 
Rome,  to  suppress  all  "demonstra 
tions"  that  might  embarrass  the 
government  at  this  moment. 

The  citizens  of  Genzano  certainly 
looked  ugly.  They  were  dirty  and 
poor,  and  scowled  at  the  young  offi 
cer.  The  little  town,  for  all  its  heav 
enly  situation,  seemed  dreary  and 
sad.  The  word  "socialismo"  scrawled 
on  the  stone  walls  had  been  half 
erased  by  the  hand  of  authority.  War 
meant  to  these  people  more  taxes  and 
fewer  men  to  work  the  fields. . . .  The 
[61 


THE   CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

young  lieutenant  liked  to  air  his 
French;  smoking  one  of  the  few  good 
cigars  I  had  left,  he  talked  freely 
while  we  waited  for  Enrico  to  emerge 
from  the  monastery  where  we  finally 
located  him.  It  would  be  war,  of 
course,  he  said.  There  was  no  other 
way.  Before  it  might  have  been 
doubtful,  but  now  that  the  Germans 
had  been  found  over  in  Tripoli  and 
German  guns,  too,  what  could  one 
do?  Evidently  the  lieutenant  wel 
comed  almost  anything  that  would 
take  the  grenadiers  from  Genzano! 
Then  Enrico  came  running  out  of 
the  great  gate,  as  nice  a  looking  lad 
of  nineteen  as  one  could  find  any 
where,  even  in  his  soiled  and  mussed 
uniform,  and  Enrico  had  no  false 
shame  about  embracing  his  mother 
in  the  presence  of  his  officer  and  of 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  comrades  who  were  looking  down 
on  us  enviously  from  the  windows 
of  the  old  monastery.  The  lieutenant 
gave  the  boy  three  hours'  liberty  to 
spend  with  us  and,  saluting  politely, 
went  back  to  the  post. 

With  Enrico  between  us  we  wan 
dered  up  the  hill  toward  the  green 
lake  in  the  bowl  of  the  ancient 
crater.  Signora  Maironi  kept  tight 
hold  of  her  lad,  purring  over  him  in 
French  and  Italian — the  more  inti 
mate  things  in  Italian — turning  as 
mothers  will  from  endearment  to 
gentle  scolding.  Why  did  he  not 
keep  himself  tidier?  Surely  he  had 
the  needles  and  thread  his  sister 
Bianca  had  given  him  the  last  time 
he  was  at  home.  And  how  was  the 
ear?  Had  he  carried  out  the  doc 
tor's  directions?  Which  it  is  need- 

f8] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

less  to  say  Enrico  had  not.  The 
signora  explained  to  me  that  the 
boy  was  in  danger  of  losing  the  hear 
ing  of  one  ear  because  of  the  careless 
treatment  the  regimental  doctor  had 
given  him  when  he  had  a  cold.  She 
did  not  like  to  complain  of  the  mili 
tary  authorities :  of  course  they  could 
not  bother  with  every  little  trouble 
a  soldier  had  in  a  time  like  this,  but 
the  loss  of  his  hearing  would  be  a 
serious  handicap  to  the  boy  in  earn 
ing  his  living.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  that  Enrico  had  not  yet 
breakfasted,  and,  although  it  was 
only  eleven,  I  insisted  on  putting 
forward  the  movable  feast  of  conti 
nental  breakfast,  and  we  ordered 
our  colazione  served  in  the  empty 
garden  of  the  little  inn  above  the 
lake.  While  Enrico  ate  and  discussed 
[91 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

with  me  the  prospects  of  war,  the 
signora  looked  the  boy  all  over 
again,  feeling  his  shoulders  beneath 
the  loose  uniform  to  see  whether  he 
had  lost  flesh  after  the  thirty-mile 
march  from  Rome  under  a  hot  sun. 
It  was  much  as  an  American  mother 
might  examine  her  offspring  after 
his  first  week  at  boarding-school, 
only  more  intense.  And  Enrico  was 
very  much  like  a  clean,  hearty,  lov 
able  schoolboy,  delighted  to  be  let 
out  from  authority  and  to  talk  like 
a  man  with  another  man.  He  was 
confident  Italy  would  be  in  the  war 
—oh,  very  sure!  And  he  nodded  his 
head  at  me  importantly.  His  cap 
tain  was  a  capital  fellow,  really  like 
a  father  to  the  men,  and  the  cap 
tain  had  told  them — but  he  pulled 
himself  up  suddenly.  After  all,  I 
[10] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

was  a  foreigner,  and  must  not  hear 
what  the  captain  had  said.  But  he 
let  me  know  proudly  that  his  regi 
ment,  the  granatieri  of  Sardinia,  had 
received  the  promise  that  they  would 
be  among  the  first  to  go  to  the  front. 
The  mother's  fond  eyes  contracted 
slightly  with  pain. 

After  our  breakfast  Enrico  took  me 
into  the  garden  of  the  old  monas 
tery  where  other  youthful  grenadiers 
were  loafing  on  the  grass  under  the 
trees  or  writing  letters  on  the  rough 
table  among  the  remains  of  food. 
Some  of  the  squad  had  gone  to  the 
lake  for  a  swim;  I  could  hear  their 
shouts  and  laughter  far  below.  Pres 
ently  the  signora,  who  had  been 
barred  at  the  gate  by  the  old  Fran 
ciscan,  hurried  down  the  shady  path, 
[ll] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"I  told  him,"  she  explained,  "that 
he  could  just  look  the  other  way  and 
avoid  sin.  Then  I  slipped  through 
the  door!" 

So  with  her  hand  on  her  recap 
tured  boy  we  strolled  through  the 
old  gardens  as  far  as  the  stable 
where  the  soldiers  slept.  The  floor 
was  littered  with  straw,  which,  with 
an  overcoat,  Enrico  assured  me, 
made  a  capital  bed.  The  food  was 
good  enough.  They  got  four  cents  a 
day,  which  did  not  go  far  to  buy 
cigarettes  and  postage-stamps,  but 
they  would  be  paid  ten  cents  a  day 
when  they  were  at  war !  .  .  . 

At  last  we  turned  into  the  high 
road  arched  with  old  trees  that  led 
down  to  the  tramway.  Enrico's  leave 
was  nearly  over.  All  the  glory  of  the 
spring  day  poured  forth  from  the 
[12] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

flowering  hedges,  where  bees  hummed 
and  birds  sang.  Enrico  gathered  a 
great  bunch  of  yellow  heather,  which 
his  mother  wanted  to  take  home. 
"Little  Bianca  will  like  it  so  much 
when  she  hears  her  brother  picked 
it,"  she  explained.  "Bianca  thinks  he 
is  a  hero  already,  the  dear!" 

When  we  reached  the  car-tracks 
we  sat  on  a  mossy  wall  and  chatted. 
In  a  field  across  the  road  an  old  gray 
mare  stood  looking  steadfastly  at 
her  small  foal,  which  was  asleep  in 
the  high  grass  at  her  feet.  The  old 
mare  stood  patiently  for  many  min 
utes  without  once  cropping  a  bit  of 
grass,  lowering  her  head  occasionally 
to  sniff  at  the  little  colt.  Her  attitude 
of  absorbed  contemplation,  of  per 
fect  satisfaction  in  her  ungainly  off 
spring,  made  me  laugh — it  was  so 
[131 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

exactly  like  the  signora's.  At  last  the 
little  fellow  woke,  got  somehow  on 
his  long  legs,  and  shaking  a  scrubby 
tail  went  gambolling  off  down  the 
pasture,  enjoying  his  coltish  world. 
The  old  mare  followed  close  behind 
with  eyes  only  for  him. 

"Look  at  him!"  the  signora  ex 
claimed,  pointing  to  the  ridiculous 
foal.  "How  nice  he  is  !  Oh,  how  beau 
tiful  youth  always  is !" 

She  looked  up  admiringly  at  her 
tall,  handsome  Enrico,  who  had 
just  brought  her  another  bunch  of 
heather.  The  birds  were  singing  like 
mad  in  the  fields;  some  peasants 
passed  with  their  laden  donkeys; 
I  smoked  contemplatively,  while 
mother  and  son  talked  family  gos 
sip  and  the  signora  went  all  over 
her  boy  again  for  the  fourth  time. 

[14] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

.  .  .  Yes,  youth  is  beautiful,  surely, 
but  there  seemed  something  horri 
bly  pathetic  about  it  all  in  spite  of 
the  loveliness  of  the  May  morning. 

The  three  hours  came  to  an  end. 
Enrico  rose  and  saluted  me  formally. 
He  was  so  glad  to  have  seen  me;  I 
was  very  good  to  bring  his  mother 
all  the  way  from  Rome;  and  he  and 
the  comrades  would  much  enjoy  my 
excellent  cigarettes.  "A  river  derci!" 
Then  he  turned  to  his  mother  and 
without  any  self-consciousness  bent 
to  her  open  arms.  .  .  . 

When  the  signora  joined  me  far 
ther  down  the  road  she  was  clear- 
eyed  but  sombre. 

"Can  you  understand,"  she  said 
softly,  "how  when  I  have  him  in 
my  arms  and  think  of  all  I  have 

[15] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

done  for  him,  his  education,  his  long 
sickness,  all,  all — and  what  he  means 
to  me  and  his  father  and  little  Bi- 
anca — and  then  I  think  how  in  one 
moment  it  may  all  be  over  for  al 
ways,  all  that  precious  life — O  God 
what  are  women  made  for !  .  .  .  We 
shall  have  to  hurry,  my  friend,  to 
get  to  the  station." 

I  glanced  back  once  more  at  the 
slim  figure  just  going  around  the 
bend  of  the  road  at  a  run,  so  as  not 
to  exceed  his  leave — a  mere  boy  and 
such  a  nice  boy,  with  his  brilliant, 
eager  eyes,  so  healthy  and  clean  and 
joyous,  so  affectionate,  so  completely 
what  any  mother  would  adore.  And 
he  might  be  going  "up  north"  any 
day  now  to  fight  the  Austrians. 

"Signora,"  I  asked,  "do  you  be 
lieve  in  war?" 

[16] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"They  all  say  this  war  has  to  be," 
she  said  dully.  "Oh,  I  don't  know! 
...  It  is  a  hard  world  to  understand  ! 
...  I  try  to  remember  that  I  am  only 
one  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
Italian  women.  ...  I  hope  I  shall 
see  him  once  more  before  they  take 
him  away.  My  God !" 

That  afternoon  the  expert  who  had 
been  sent  to  Rome  by  a  foreign 
newspaper  to  watch  the  critical  situ 
ation  carefully  put  down  his  empty 
teacup  and  pronounced  his  verdict: 
'Yes,  this  time  it  looks  to  me 
really  like  war.  They  have  gone  too 
far  to  draw  back.  Some  of  them  think 
they  are  likely  to  get  a  good  deal  out 
of  the  war  with  a  small  sacrifice — 
everybody  likes  a  bargain,  you  know  ! 
.  .  .  Then  General  Cadorna,  they 

[17] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

say,  is  a  very  ambitious  man,  and 
this  is  his  chance.  A  successful  cam 
paign  would  make  him.  .  .  .  But  I 
don't  know.  It  would  be  quite  a 
risk,  quite  a  risk." 

Yes,  I  thought,  quite  a  risk  for  the 
conscript  mothers ! 

II 

The  politician  came  to  Rome  and 
delivered  his  prudent  advice,  and 
the  quiescent  people  began  to  growl, 
ic  ministers  resigned:  the  public 
growled  more  loudly.  .  .  .  During 
tke  turbulent  week  that  followed, 
while  Italy  still  hesitated,  I  saw 
Enrico  Maironi  a  number  of  times. 
Indeed,  his  frank  young  face  with 
the  sparkling  black  eyes  is  mingled 
with  all  my  memories  of  those  tense 

[18] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

days  when  the  streets  of  Rome  were 
vocal  with  passionate  crowds,  when 
soldiers  barred  the  thoroughfares, 
and  no  one  knew  whether  there 
would  be  war  with  Austria  or  revo 
lution. 

One  night,  having  been  turned  out 
of  the  Cafe  Nazionale  when  the 
troops  cleared  the  Corso  of  the  mob 
that  threatened  the  Austrian  em 
bassy,  I  wandered  through  the  agi 
tated  city  until  I  found  myself  in 
the  quarter  where  the  Maironis  lived, 
and  called  at  their  little  home  to 
hear  if  they  had  had  news  of  the 
boy.  There  was  light  in  the  dining- 
room,  though  it  was  long  past  the 
hour  when  even  the  irresponsible 
Maironis  took  their  irregular  dinner. 
As  I  entered  I  could  see  in  the  light 
of  the  single  candle  three  faces  in- 

[19] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

tently  focussed  on  a  fourth — En 
rico's,  with  a  preoccupation  that 
my  arrival  scarcely  disturbed.  They 
made  me  sit  down  and  hospitably 
opened  a  fresh  bottle  of  wine.  The 
boy  had  just  arrived  unexpectedly, 
his  regiment  having  been  recalled  to 
Rome  that  afternoon.  He  was  travel- 
stained,  with  a  button  off  his  mili 
tary  coat  which  his  sister  was  sewing 
on  while  he  ate.  He  looked  tired  but 
excited,  and  his  brilliant  eyes  lighted 
with  welcome  as  he  accepted  one  of 
my  Turkish  cigarettes  with  the  air 
of  a  young  worldling  and  observed: 
'You  see,  it  is  coming — sooner 
than  we  expected !" 

There  was  a  note  of  boyish  tri 
umph  in  his  voice  as  he  went  on  to 
explain  again  for  my  benefit  how 
his  captain — a  really  good  fellow 

[20] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

though  a  bit  severe  in  little  things 

—had  let  him  off  for  the  evening  to 
see  his  family.  He  spoke  of  his  officer 
exactly  as  my  own  boy  might  speak 
of  some  approved  schoolmaster.  Si- 
gnor  Maironi,  who  in  his  post  at  the 
war  office  heard  things  before  they 
got  into  the  street,  looked  very 
grave  and  said  little. 

:'You  are  glad  to  have  him  back 
in  Rome,  at  any  rate !"  I  said  to  the 
signora. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  expres 
sively. 

"Rome  is  the  first  step  on  a  long 
journey,"  she  replied  sombrely. 

The  silent  tensity  of  the  father's 
gaze,  fastened  on  his  boy,  became 
unbearable.  I  followed  the  signora, 
who  had  strolled  through  the  open 
door  to  the  little  terrace  and  stood 

[21] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

looking  blankly  into  the  night.  Far 
away,  somewhere  in  the  city,  rose  a 
clamor  of  shouting  people,  and  swift 
footsteps  hurried  past  in  the  street. 

"It  will  kill  his  father,  if  anything 
happens  to  him!"  she  said  slowly, 
as  if  she  knew  herself  to  be  the 
stronger.  'You  see  he  chose  the 
grenadiers  for  Enrico  because  that 
regiment  almost  never  leaves  Rome: 
it  stays  with  the  King.  And  now  the 
King  is  going  to  the  front,  they  say 
-it  will  be  the  first  of  all !" 

"I  see!" 

:' To-night  may  be  his  last  time  at 
home." 

"Perhaps,"  I  said,  seeking  for  the 
futile  crumb  of  comfort,  "they  will 
take  Giolitti's  advice,  and  there  will 
be  no  war." 

Enrico,  who  had  followed  us  from 

[22] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  dining-room,  caught  the  remark 
and  cried  with  youthful  conviction: 
:'That  Giolitti  is  a  traitor — he  has 
been  bought  by  the  Germans !" 

"Giolitti!"  little  Bianca  echoed 
scornfully,  arching  her  black  brows. 
Evidently  the  politician  had  lost  his 
popularity  among  the  youth  of  Italy. 
Within  the  dining-room  I  could  see 
the  father  sitting  alone  beside  the 
candle,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Bianca  caressed  her  brother's  shoul 
der  with  her  cheeks. 

"I  am  going,  too!"  she  said  tome 
with  a  little  smile.  "I  shall  join  the 
Red  Cross — I  begin  my  training 
to-morrow,  eh,  mamma  mia  ? "  And 
she  threw  a  glance  of  childish  defi 
ance  at  the  signora. 

"Little  Bianca  is  growing  up  fast !" 
I  laughed. 

[23] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"They  take  them  all  except  the 
cripples,"  the  signora  commented 
bitterly,  "even  the  girls!" 

"But  I  am  a  woman,"  Bianca  pro 
tested,  drawing  away  from  Enrico 
and  raising  her  pretty  head.  "I  shall 
get  the  hospital  training  and  go  up 
north,  too — to  be  near  'Rico." 

Something  surely  had  come  to  the 
youth  of  this  country  when  girls 
like  Bianca  Maironi  spoke  with  such 
assurance  of  going  forth  from  the 
home  into  the  unknown. 

"Sicuro!"  She  nodded  her  head 
to  emphasize  what  I  suspected  had 
been  a  moot  point  between  mother 
and  daughter.  The  signora  looked 
inscrutably  at  the  girl  for  a  little 
while,  then  said  quietly:  "It's  'most 
ten,  Enrico." 

The  boy  unclasped  Bianca's  tight 

[24] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

little  hands,  kissed  his  mother  and 
father,  gave  me  the  military  salute 
.  .  .  and  we  could  hear  him  running 
fast  down  the  street.  The  signora 
blew  out  the  sputtering  candle  and 
closed  the  door. 

"I  am  going,  too!"  Bianca  ex 
claimed. 

The  poet  was  coming  to  Rome. 
After  the  politician,  close  on  his 
heels,  the  poet,  fresh  from  his  tri 
umph  at  the  celebration  of  Quarto, 
where  with  his  flaming  allegory  he 
had  stirred  the  youth  of  Italy  to 
their  depths  !  A  few  henchmen,  wait 
ing  for  the  leader's  word,  had  met 
Giolitti;  all  Rome,  it  seemed  to 
me,  was  turning  out  to  greet  the 
poet.  They  had  poured  into  the 
great  square  before  the  terminus 

[25] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

station  from  every  quarter.  The 
packed  throng  reached  from  the 
dark  walls  of  the  ancient  baths 
around  the  splashing  fountain,  into 
the  radiating  avenues,  and  up  to  the 
portico  of  the  station  itself,  which 
was  black  with  human  figures.  It 
was  a  quiet,  orderly,  well-dressed 
crowd  that  swayed  back  and  forth, 
waiting  patiently  hour  after  hour — 
the  train  was  very  late — to  see  the 
poet's  face,  to  hear,  perhaps,  his 
word  of  courage  for  which  it  thirsted. 
There  were  soldiers  everywhere,  as 
usual.  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  fa 
miliar  uniform  of  the  granatieri,  but 
the  gray -coated  boyish  figures  seemed 
all  alike.  In  the  midst  of  the  press 
I  saw  the  signora  and  Bianca,  whose 
eyes  were  also  wandering  after  the 
soldiers. 

[26] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"You  came  to  welcome  D'Annun- 
zio?"  I  queried,  knowing  the  good 
woman's  prejudices. 

"Him!"  the  signora  retorted  with 
curling  lip.  "Bianca  brought  me." 

:'Yes,  we  have  been  to  the  Red 
Cross,"  the  girl  flashed. 

"Rome  welcomes  the  poet  as  though 
he  were  royalty,"  I  remarked,  stand 
ing  on  tiptoe  to  sweep  with  a  glance 
the  immense  crowd. 

"He  will  not  go  to  the  front — he 
will  just  talk!" 

"Enrico  is  here  somewhere,"  Bi- 
anca  explained.  "They  told  us  so  at 
the  barracks.  We  have  looked  all 
about  and  mamma  has  asked  so 
many  officers.  We  haven't  seen  him 
since  that  first  night.  He  has  been 
on  duty  all  day  in  the  streets,  doing 
pichett  'armato,  ...  I  wish  Giolitti 

[27] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

would  go  back  home.  If  he  doesn't 
go  soon,  he'll  find  out!" 

Her  white  teeth  came  together 
grimly,  and  she  made  a  significant 
little  gesture  with  her  hand. 

1 '  Where's  mamma  ?  " 

The  signora  had  caught  sight  of 
another  promising  uniform  and  was 
talking  with  the  kindly  officer  who 
wore  it. 

"His  company  is  inside  the  sta 
tion,"  she  explained  when  she  re 
joined  us,  "and  we  can  never  get 
in  there ! " 

She  would  have  left  if  Bianca  had 
not  restrained  her.  The  girl  wanted 
to  see  the  poet.  Presently  the  night 
began  to  fall,  the  still  odorous  May 
night  of  Rome.  The  big  arc-lamps 
shone  down  upon  the  crowded  faces. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  forward  sway- 
[28] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

ing,  shouts  and  cheers  from  the  sta 
tion.  A  little  man's  figure  was  being 
carried  above  the  eager  crowd.  Then 
a  motor  bellowed  for  free  passage 
through  the  human  mass.  A  wave  of 
song  burst  from  thousands  of  throats, 
Mameli's  "L'Inno."  A  little  gray  face 
passed  swiftly.  The  poet  had  come 
and  gone. 

"Come  !"  Bianca  exclaimed,  taking 
my  hand  firmly  and  pulling  the  si- 
gnora  on  the  other  side.  And  she  hur 
ried  us  on  with  the  streaming  crowd 
through  lighted  streets  toward  the 
Pincian  hill,  in  the  wake  of  the  poet's 
car.  The  crowd  had  melted  from 
about  the  station  and  was  pouring 
into  the  Via  Veneto.  About  the  lit 
tle  fountain  of  the  Tritone  it  had 
massed  again,  but  persistent  Bianca 
squirmed  through  the  yielding  fig- 

[29] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

ures,  dragging  us  with  her  until  we 
were  wedged  tight  in  the  mass 
nearly  opposite  the  Queen  Mother's 
palace, 

The  vast  multitude  that  reached 
into  the  shadow  of  the  night  were 
cheering  and  singing.  Their  shouts 
and  songs  must  have  reached  even 
the  ears  of  the  German  ambassador 
at  the  Villa  Malta  a  few  blocks 
away.  The  signora  had  forgotten  her 
grenadier,  her  dislike  of  the  poet,  and 
for  the  moment  was  caught  up  in 
the  emotion  of  the  crowd.  Bianca 
was  singing  the  familiar  hymn.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  there  was  a  hush;  light 
fell  upon  the  upturned  faces  from  an 
opened  window  on  a  balcony  in  the 
Hotel  Regina.  The  poet  stood  forth 
in  the  band  of  yellow  light  and 
looked  down  upon  the  dense  throng 

[301 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

beneath.  In  the  stillness  his  words 
began  to  fall,  very  slowly,  very 
clearly,  as  if  each  was  a  graven  mes 
sage  for  his  people.  And  the  Roman 
youth  all  about  me  swayed  and 
sighed,  seizing  each  colored  word, 
divining  its  heroic  symbol,  drinking 
thirstily  the  ardor  of  the  poet. 

"The  light  has  not  wholly  gone 
from  the  Aurelian  wall  .  .  .  fifty 
years  ago  at  this  hour  the  leader  of 
the  Thousand  and  his  heroic  com 
pany  .  .  .  We  will  not  be  a  museum, 
an  inn,  a  water-color  in  Prussian 
blue !  .  .  ." 

The  double  line  of  soldiers  behind 
us  had  forgotten  their  formation 
and  were  pressing  forward  to  catch 
each  word.  The  signora  was  gazing 
at  the  man  with  fascinated  eyes. 
Bianca's  little  hand  tightened  un- 

[31] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

consciously  on  mine,  and  her  lips 
parted  in  a  smile.  The  poet's  words 
were  falling  into  her  eager  heart. 
He  was  speaking  for  her,  for  all  the 
ardent  youth  of  Italy: 

"  Viva  I  Viva  Roma  senza  onta ! 
Viva  la  grande  e  pur  a  Italia  I  .  .  ." 

The  voice  ceased:  for  one  moment 
there  was  complete  silence;  then  a 
cheer  that  was  half  a  sigh  broke 
from  the  crowd.  But  the  blade  of 
light  faded,  the  poet  was  gone. 
When  at  last  I  got  the  Maironis 
into  a  cab  there  were  bright  tears 
in  Bianca's  eyes  and  the  mother's 
face  was  troubled. 

"Perhaps  it  has  to  be,"  the  signora 
murmured. 

"Of  course  !"  Bianca  echoed  sharp 
ly,  raising  her  little  head  defiantly. 
"What  else  could  Italy  do?" 

[32] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

The  streets  were  rapidly  empty 
ing.  Some  companies  of  infantry 
that  had  been  policing  the  city  all 
day  marched  wearily  past.  Bianca 
jumped  up  quickly. 

"They're  granatieri  I  And  there's 
'Rico's  captain !" 

The  sympathetic  cab-driver  pulled 
up  his  horse  while  the  soldiers 
tramped  by. 

"  'Rico,  'Rico  ! "  the  girl  called  softly 
to  the  soldiers. 

A  hand  went  up,  and  the  boy  gave 
us  a  luminous  smile  as  his  file  swung 
past. 

"I  have  seen  him  again!"  the 
mother  said  hungrily. 

The  poet  spoke  the  next  day,  and 
the  next,  to  the  restless  people  who 
waited  hour  after  hour  in  the  street 

[33] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

before  his  hotel.  Having  found  its 
voice — a  voice  that  revealed  its  in 
ner  heart — young  Italy  clamored  for 
action.  The  fret  of  Rome  grew 
louder  hourly;  soldiers  cordoned  the 
main  streets,  while  Giolitti  waited, 
the  ambassadors  flitted  back  and 
forth  to  the  Consulta,  the  King  took 
counsel  with  his  advisers.  I  looked 
for  young  Maironi's  face  among 
the  lines  of  troops  barring  passage 
through  the  streets.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  might  be  called  at  any  mo 
ment  to  do  his  soldier's  duty  here 
in  Rome ! 

All  day  long  and  half  the  night  the 
cavalry  stood  motionless  before  the 
Church  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore, 
ready  to  clear  away  the  mobs  that 
prowled  about  the  corner  of  Via 
Cavour,  where  Giolitti  lived.  Once 

[34] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

they  charged.  It  was  the  night  the 
poet  appeared  at  the  Costanzi  The 
atre.  The  narrow  street  was  full  of 
shouting  people  as  I  drove  to  the 
theatre  with  the  Maironis.  Suddenly 
there  was  the  ugly  sound  of  horses' 
feet  on  concrete  walks,  shrieks  and 
wild  rushes  for  safety  in  doorways 
and  alleys.  As  our  cab  whisked 
safely  around  a  corner  the  cavalry 
came  dashing  past,  their  hairy  plumes 
streaming  out  from  the  metal  hel 
mets,  their  ugly  swords  high  in  the 
air.  The  signora's  face  paled.  Per 
haps  she  was  thinking,  as  I  was, 
that  there  might  be  one  thing  worse 
than  war  with  Austria,  and  that 
would  be  revolution.  Bianca  ex 
claimed  scornfully: 

"They  had  better  be  fighting  Italy's 
enemies !" 

[351 


"They  are  not  yet  enemies,"  I 
ventured. 

She  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her 
shoulders. 

:'They  will  be  to-morrow!" 

The  fever  within  the  vast  audi 
torium  seemed  to  bear  out  the  girl's 
words.  Here  was  no  "rabble  of  the 
piazza,"  to  repeat  the  German  am 
bassador's  sneer,  but  well-to-do  Ro 
man  citizens.  For  three  hours  they 
shouted  their  hatred  of  Teuton,  sang 
patriotic  hymns,  cried  defiance  of 
the  politician  Giolitti,  who  would 
keep  the  nation  safely  bound  in  its 
old  alliance.  "Fuori  i  barbari !  .  .  . 
Giolitti  traditore  ! "  One  grizzled  Ro 
man  hurled  in  my  ears:  "I'll  drink 
his  blood,  the  traitor!" 

When  the  little  poet  entered  his 
flower- wreathed  box  every  one 

[36] 


cheered  and  waved  to  him.  He  stood 
looking  down  on  the  passionate  hu 
man  sea  beneath  him,  then  slowly 
plucked  the  red  flowers  from  a  great 
bunch  of  carnations  that  some  one 
handed  him  and  threw  them  one  by 
one  far  out  into  the  cheering  throng. 
One  floated  downward  straight  into 
Bianca's  eager  hand.  She  snatched 
it,  kissed  the  flower,  and  looked  up 
ward  into  the  poet's  smiling  face.  .  .  . 
He  recited  the  suppressed  stanzas 
of  a  war-poem,  the  slow,  rhythmic 
lines  falling  like  the  red  flowers  into 
eager  hearts.  The  signora  was  stand 
ing  on  her  seat  beside  Bianca,  clasp 
ing  her  arm,  and  tears  gathered 
slowly  in  her  large,  wistful  eyes, 
tears  of  pride  and  sadness.  .  .  .  Out 
in  the  still  night  once  more  from 
that  storm  of  passion  we  walked  on 

[37] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

silently  through  empty  streets.  "He 
believes  it — he  is  right,"  the  signora 
sighed.  "Italy  also  must  do  her 
part!" 

"Of  course,"  Bianca  said  quickly, 
"and  she  will !  .  .  .  See  there !" 

The  girl  pointed  to  a  heap  of  stones 
freshly  upturned  in  the  street.  It 
was  the  first  barricade. 

"Our  soldiers  must  not  fight  each 
other,"  she  said  gravely,  and  glanced 
again  over  her  shoulder  at  the  bar 
ricade.  .  .  . 

In  front  of  Santa  Maria  the  tired 
cavalry  sat  their  horses,  and  a  double 
line  of  infantry  was  drawn  across  the 
Via  Cavour  before  the  Giolitti  home. 
The  boys  were  slouching  over  their 
rifles;  evidently,  whatever  play  there 
had  been  in  this  picket  duty  had 
gone  out  of  it.  Suddenly  Bianca  and 

[38] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

her  mother  ran  down  the  line.  "Mai- 
roni,  Maironi !"  I  heard  some  of  the 
soldiers  calling  softly,  and  there  was 
a  shuffle  in  the  ranks.  Enrico  was 
shoved  forward  to  the  front  in  com 
radely  fashion.  Mother  and  sister 
chatted  with  the  boy,  and  presently 
Bianca  came  dashing  back. 

"They  haven't  had  anything  to  eat 
all  day!" 

We  found  a  cafe  still  open  and 
loaded  ourselves  with  rolls,  choco 
late,  and  cigarettes,  which  Bianca 
distributed  to  the  weary  soldiers 
while  the  young  lieutenant  tactfully 
strolled  to  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

"To  think  of  keeping  them  here 
all  day  without  food!"  the  signora 
grumbled  as  we  turned  away.  The 
boys,  shoving  their  gifts  into  pockets 
and  mouths,  straightened  up  as  their 

[39] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

officer  came  back  down  the  line. 
:'They  might  as  well  be  at  war," 
the  signora  continued. 

When  I  returned  to  my  hotel 
through  the  silent  streets  the  grana- 
tieri  had  gone  from  their  post,  but 
the  horsemen  were  still  sitting  their 
sleeping  mounts  before  the  old 
church.  Their  vigil  would  be  all 
night. 

The  nation's  crisis  had  come  and 
passed.  We  did  not  know  it,  but  it 
was  marked  by  those  little  piles  of 
stones  in  the  Via  Viminale.  The  dis 
turber  Giolitti  had  fled  overnight  at 
the  .  invitation  of  the  government, 
which  now  knew  itself  to  be  strong 
enough  to  do  what  it  would.  And 
thereafter  events  moved  more  swift 
ly.  Rome  was  once  more  calm.  The 

[40] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

people  gathered  again  by  the  hun 
dreds  of  thousands,  but  peacefully, 
in  the  spirit  of  concord,  in  the  Pi 
azza  del  Popolo  and  in  the  Campi- 
doglio.  Their  will  had  prevailed,  they 
had  found  themselves.  A  great  need 
of  reconciliation,  of  union  of  all 
spirits,  was  expressed  in  these  meet 
ings,  under  the  soft  spring  sky,  in 
spots  consecrated  by  ancient  memo 
ries  of  greatness. 

In  the  crowd  that  filled  the  little 
piazza,  of  the  Campidoglio  to  the 
brim  and  ran  down  into  the  old 
lanes  that  led  to  the  Forum  and  the 
city  I  met  Signora  Maironi  once 
more.  She  had  not  come  thither  to 
find  her  boy — soldiers  were  no  longer 
needed  to  keep  the  Romans  from 
violence.  She  came  in  the  hungry 
need  to  fill  her  heart  with  belief  and 

[41] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

confidence,  to  strengthen  herself  for 
sacrifice. 

"We  haven't  seen  Enrico  since  that 
night  on  the  streets.  He  is  kept 
ready  in  the  barracks  unless  he  has 
been  sent  away  already.  .  .  .  But  he 
said  he  would  let  us  know !" 

A  procession  with  the  flags  of  Italy 
and  of  the  desired  provinces  mounted 
the  long  flight  of  steps  above  us, 
and  the  syndic  of  Rome,  the  Prince 
Colonna,  came  out  from  the  open 
door  and  fronted  the  mass  of  citi 
zens. 

"He  is  going,  and  his  sons!"  the 
signora  whispered.  "He  is  a  fine 
man!"  The  prince  looked  gravely 
over  the  upturned  faces  as  if  he 
would  speak;  then  refrained,  as 
though  the  moment  were  too  solemn 
for  further  words.  He  stood  there 

[42] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

looking  singularly  like  the  grave 
portraits  of  Roman  fathers  in  the 
museum  near  by,  strong,  stern,  re 
solved.  The  evening  breeze  lifted  the 
cluster  of  flags  and  waved  them  vig 
orously.  Little  fleecy  clouds  floated 
in  the  blue  sky  above  the  AraCoeli 
Church.  There  were  no  shouts,  no 
songs.  These  were  men  and  women 
from  the  working  classes  of  the 
neighboring  quarter  of  old  Rome 
who  were  giving  their  sons  and  hus 
bands  to  the  nation,  and  felt  the  so 
lemnity  of  the  occasion. 

"Let  us  go,"  the  Prince  Colonna 
said  solemnly,  "to  the  Quirinal  to 
meet  our  King." 

As  we  turned  down  the  hill  we 
could  see  the  long  black  stream  al 
ready  flowing  through  the  narrow 
passages  out  into  the  square  before 

[43] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  great  marble  monument.  It  was 
a  silent,  spontaneous  march  of  the 
people  to  their  leader.  The  blooming 
roses  in  the  windows  and  on  the  ter 
races  above  gayly  flamed  against 
the  dark  walls  of  the  old  houses 
along  the  route.  But  the  hurrying 
crowd  did  not  look  up.  Its  mood  was 
sternly  serious.  It  did  not  turn  aside 
as  we  neared  the  palace  of  the 
enemy's  ambassador.  The  time  was 
past  for  such  childish  demonstra 
tions. 

"If  only  we  might  go  instead,  we 
older  ones,"  the  signora  said  sadly, 
"not  the  children.  .  .  .  Life  means  so 
much  more  to  them !" 

We  reached  the  Quirinal  hill  as  the 
setting  sun  flooded  all  Rome  from 
the  ridge  of  the  Janiculum.  The  pi 
azza  was  already  crowded  and  at  the 

[44] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

Consulta  opposite  the  royal  palace, 
where,  even  at  this  eleventh  hour, 
the  ambassadors  were  vainly  offer 
ing  last  inducements,  favored  spec 
tators  rilled  the  windows.  It  was  a 
peculiarly  quiet,  solemn  scene.  No 
speeches,  no  cheers,  no  songs.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  signora's  last  words 
were  in  every  mind.  :'They  say," 
she  remarked  sadly,  "that  it  will 
take  a  great  many  lives  to  carry 
those  strong  mountain  positions, 
many  thousands  each  month,  thou 
sands  and  thousands  of  boys.  .  .  . 
All  those  mothers !" 

At  that  moment  the  window  on 
the  balcony  above  the  entrance  to 
the  palace  was  flung  open,  and  two 
lackeys  brought  out  a  red  cloth 
which  they  hung  over  the  stone  bal 
ustrade.  Then  the  King  and  Queen, 

[45] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

followed  by  the  little  prince  and  his 
sister,  stepped  forth  and  stood  above 
us,  looking  down  into  the  crowded 
faces.  The  King  bowed  his  head  to 
the  cheers  that  greeted  him  from 
his  people,  but  his  serious  face  did 
not  relax.  He  looked  worn,  old.  Per 
haps  he,  too,  was  thinking  of  those 
thousands  of  lives  that  must  be 
spent  each  month  to  unlock  the  Al 
pine  passes  which  for  forty  years 
Austria  had  been  fortifying !  .  .  .  He 
bowed  again  in  response  to  the 
hearty  cries  of  Viva  il  Re  I  The  Queen 
bowed.  The  little  black-haired  prince 
by  his  father's  side  looked  steadily 
down  into  the  faces.  He,  too,  seemed 
to  understand  what  it  meant — that 
these  days  his  father's  throne  had 
been  put  into  the  stake  for  which 
Italy  was  to  fight,  that  his  people 

[461 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

had  cast  all  on  the  throw  of  this  war. 
No  smile,  no  boyish  elation,  relieved 
the  serious  little  face. 

"Why  does  he  not  speak?"  the 
signora  murmured,  as  if  her  aching 
heart  demanded  a  word  of  courage 
from  her  King. 

"It  is  not  yet  the  time,"  I  sug 
gested,  nodding  to  the  Consul ta. 

The  King  cried,  "Viva  Italia  /" 
then  withdrew  from  the  balcony 
with  his  family. 

"Viva  Italia!'"  It  was  a  prayer,  a 
hope,  spoken  from  the  heart,  and  it 
was  received  silently  by  the  throng. 
Yes,  might  the  God  of  battles  pre 
serve  Italy,  all  the  beauty  and  the 
glory  that  the  dying  sun  was  bath 
ing  in  its  golden  flood !  .  .  . 

Signora  Maironi  hurried  through 
the  crowded  street  at  a  nervous  pace. 

[47] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"I  do  not  like  to  be  long  away 
from  home,"  she  explained.  "'Rico 
may  come  and  go  for  the  last  time 
while  I  am  out." 

We  had  no  sooner  entered  the  door 
of  the  house  than  the  mother  said: 
"Yes,  he's  here!" 

The  boy  was  sitting  in  the  little 
dining-room,  drinking  a  glass  of 
wine,  his  father  on  one  side,  his 
sister  on  the  other.  He  seemed  much 
excited. 

"We  leave  in  the  morning!"  he 
said. 

There  was  an  exultant  ring  in  his 
voice,  a  flash  in  his  black  eyes. 

"Where  for?"  I  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"They  never  tell — to  the  front 
somewhere !  .  .  .  See  my  stripes. 
They  have  made  me  bicyclist  for 

[48] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  battalion.  I've  got  a  machine  to 
ride  now.  I  shall  carry  orders,  you 
know!" 

His  laugh  was  broken  by  a  cough. 

"Ugh,  this  nasty  cold — that  comes 
from  Messer  Giolitti  —  too  much 
night- work — no  more  of  that!  The 
rat!" 

I  glanced  at  the  signora. 

"Have  you  all  his  things  ready, 
Bianca?"  she  asked  calmly.  "The 
cheese  and  the  cake  and  his 
clothes?" 

"Everything,"  the  little  girl  re 
plied  quickly.  "'Rico  says  we  can't 
come  to  see  him  off." 

The  mother  looked  inquiringly  at 
the  boy. 

"It's  no  use  trying.  Nobody  knows 
where  or  when,"  he  explained.  "They 
don't  want  a  lot  of  mothers  and  sis- 
No] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

ters  fussing  over  the  men,"  he  added 
teasingly. 

Little  Bianca  told  me  how  she  and 
her  mother  slipped  past  all  the  sen 
tinels  at  the  station  the  next  morn 
ing  and  ran  along  the  embankment 
outside  the  railroad  yards  where  the 
long  line  of  cattle-cars  packed  with 
soldiers  was  waiting. 

''They  know  us  pretty  well  in  the 
regiment  by  this  time,"  she  laughed. 
"I  heard  them  say  as  we  ran  along 
the  cars  looking  for  'Rico,  '  See ! 
There's  Maironi's  mother  and  the 
little  Maironi !  Of  course,  they  would 
come  somehow ! '  .  .  .  We  gave  them 
the  roses  you  brought  yesterday— 
you  don't  mind?  They  loved  them 
so — and  said  such  nice  things."  Bi 
anca  paused  to  laugh  and  blush  at 

[50] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  pretty  speeches  which  the  sol 
diers  had  made,  then  ran  on:  "Poor 
boys,  they'll  soon  be  where  they 
can't  get  flowers  and  cakes.  .  .  .  Then 
we  found  'Rico  at  last  and  gave  him 
the  things  just  as  the  train  started. 
He  was  so  glad  to  see  us !  Poor  'Rico 
had  such  a  cough,  and  he  looked 
quite  badly;  he  doesn't  know  how 
to  take  care  of  himself.  Mother  is 
always  scolding  him  for  being  so 
careless — boys  are  all  like  that,  you 
know !  .  .  .  There  was  such  a  noise ! 
We  ran  along  beside  the  train,  oh,  a 
long  way,  until  we  came  to  a  deep 
ditch — we  couldn't  jump  that!  And 
they  cheered  us,  all  the  soldiers  in  the 
cars;  they  looked  so  queer,  jammed 
in  the  cattle-cars  with  the  straw,  just 
like  the  horses.  Enrico's  captain  gave 
us  a  salute,  too.  I  wonder  where 

[51] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

they  are  now."  She  paused  in  her 
rapid  talk  for  a  sombre  moment,  then 
began  excitedly:  "Don't  you  want 
to  see  my  Red  Cross  dress?  It's  so 
pretty !  I  have  just  got  it." 

She  ran  up-stairs  to  put  on  her 
nurse's  uniform;  presently  the  sig- 
nora  came  into  the  room.  She  was 
dressed  all  in  black  and  her  face  was 
very  pale.  She  nodded  and  spoke  in 
a  dull,  lifeless  voice. 

"Bianca  told  you?  He  wanted  me 
to  thank  you  for  the  cigarettes.  He 
was  not  very  well — he  was  suffering, 
I  could  see  that." 

"Nothing  worse  than  a  cold,"  I 
suggested. 

"I  must  see  him  again !"  she  cried 
suddenly,  passionately,  "just  once, 
once  more — before — "  Her  voice  died 
out  in  a  whisper.  Bianca,  who  had 

[52] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

come  back  in  her  little  white  dress, 
took  up  the  signora's  unfinished  sen 
tence  with  a  frown: 

"Of  course,  we  shall  see  him  again, 
mamma !  Didn't  he  promise  to  write 
us  where  they  sent  him  ?  "  She  turned 
to  me,  impetuous,  demanding,  true 
little  woman  of  her  race.  "You  know, 
I  shall  go  up  north,  too-,  to  one  of 
the  hospitals,  and  mamma  will  go 
with  me.  Then  we'll  find  Enrico. 
Won't  we,  mother?" 

But  the  signora's  miserable  eyes 
seemed  far  away,  as  if  they  were 
following  that  slowly  moving  train 
of  cattle-cars  packed  with  boyish 
faces.  She  fingered  unseeingly  the 
arm  of  Bianca's  dress  with  its  cross 
of  blood-red.  At  last,  with  a  long 
sigh,  she  brought  herself  back  to 
the  present.  Was  I  ready  for  an 

[53] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

Italian  lesson?  We  might  as  well 
lose  no  more  time.  She  patted  Bi- 
anca  and  pushed  her  gently  away. 
"Run  along  and  take  off  that  ter 
rible  dress!"  she  said  irritably.  Bi- 
anca,  with  a  little,  discontented  ges 
ture  and  appreciative  pat  to  the 
folds  of  her  neat  costume,  left  us 
alone.  "She  thinks  of  nothing  but 
this  war!"  the  signora  exclaimed. 
:'The  girls  are  as  bad  as  the  men !" 

"Is  it  not  quite  natural?" 

We  began  on  the  verbs,  but  the 
signora's  mind,  usually  so  vivacious, 
was  not  on  the  lesson.  It  was  still 
with  that  slow  troop-train  on  its 
way  to  the  frontier. 

:<You  are  too  tired,"  I  suggested. 

"No,  but  I  can't  stay  in  here — let 
us  go  into  the  city." 

Rome  seemed  curiously  lifeless  and 

[54] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

dead  after  all  the  passionate  move 
ment  of  the  past  week.  It  was  empty, 
too.  All  the  troops  that  had  filled 
the  seething  streets  had  departed 
overnight,  and  the  turbulent  citi 
zens  had  vanished.  The  city,  like  the 
heart  of  Italy,  was  in  suspense, 
waiting  for  the  final  word  which 
meant  war. 

:'You  will  not  stay  here  much 
longer,  I  suppose  ?"  the  signora  ques 
tioned. 

"I  suppose  not."  Life  seemed  to 
have  flowed  out  of  this  imperial 
Rome,  with  all  its  loveliness,  in  the 
wake  of  the  troop-trains. 

"If  I  could  only  go,  too !  ...  If  we 
knew  where  he  was  to  be  !" 

''You  will  know — and  you  will  fol 
low  with  Bianca." 

"I  would  go  into  battle  itself  to 

[55] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

see  'Rico  once  more!"  the  poor 
woman  moaned. 

"There  will  be  lots  of  time  yet  be 
fore  the  battles  begin,"  I  replied 
with  lying  comfort. 

:4You  think  so!  ...  War  is  very 
terrible  for  those  who  have  to  stay 
behind." 

m 

In  obedience  to  Signora  Maironi's 
mysterious  telegram,  I  waited  out 
side  the  railroad  station  in  Venice 
for  the  arrival  of  the  night  express 
from  Rome,  which  was  very  late.  The 
previous  day  I  had  taken  the  pre 
caution  to  attach  to  me  old  Giu 
seppe,  one  of  the  two  boatmen  now 
left  at  the  traghetto  near  my  hotel, 
all  the  younger  men  having  been 
called  out.  There  were  few  forestieri, 

[56] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

and  Giuseppe  was  thankful  to  have 
a  real  signore,  whom  he  faithfully 
protected  from  the  suspicious  and 
hostile  glances  of  the  Venetians. 
Every  stranger,  I  found,  had  be 
come  an  Austrian  spy  !  Giuseppe  was 
now  busily  tidying  up  his  ancient 
gondola,  exchanging  jokes  with  the 
soldiers  in  the  laden  barks  which 
passed  along  the  canal.  Occasionally 
a  fast  motor-boat  threw  up  a  long 
wave  as  it  dashed  by  on  an  errand 
with  some  officer  in  the  stern.  All 
Venice,  relieved  of  tourists,  was 
bustling  with  soldiers  and  sailors. 
Gray  torpedo-boats  lay  about  the 
piazzetta,  and  Red  Cross  flags  waved 
from  empty  palaces.  Yet  there  was 
no  war. 

"Giuseppe,"  I  asked,  "do  you  think 
there  will  be  any  war?" 
[57] 


THE   CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"Sicuro!"  the  old  man  replied, 
straightening  himself  and  pointing 
significantly  with  his  thumb  to  a 
passing  bargeful  of  soldiers.  "They 
are  on  the  way." 

"Where?" 

"Who  knows?  .  .  .  The  mountains," 
and  he  indicated  the  north  with  his 
head.  "I  have  two  sons — they  have 
gone." 

"And  Italy  will  win?"  I  continued 
idly. 

"Sicwro/"  came  the  reply  reassur 
ingly,  "ma  /" 

And  in  that  expressive  "ma"  I 
might  read  all  the  anxiety,  the  fears 
of  Italy. 

At  last  the  signora  came,  dressed 
in  the  same  black  she  had  worn  the 
day  Enrico  had  left  Rome.  In  her 
hand  she  carried  a  little  bag.  She 

[58] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

gave  me  a  timid  smile  as  Giuseppe 
settled  her  under  the  felza. 

:'You  were  surprised  at  the  tele- 

*\  ?» 
gram : 

"A  little,"  I  confessed. 

"I  had  to  come,"  she  sighed  as  the 
gondola  pushed  into  the  narrow,  tor 
tuous  canal  that  led  back  to  the 
piazza. 

"What  news  from  Enrico?" 

"Nothing  !  Not  a  word  !  .  .  .  That's 
why  I  came." 

"It's  only  been  a  week — the  mails 
are  slow,"  I  suggested. 

"I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  You  will 
think  me  mad.  I  mean  to  find  him  !" 

"But  how — where?"  I  demanded 
in  bewilderment. 

"That's  what  I  must  discover  here." 

"In  Venice!" 

"Somebody  must  know!  Oh,  I  see 

[59] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

what  you  think — I  am  out  of  my 
head.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  am  !  Sitting  there 
in  the  house  day  after  day  thinking, 
thinking — and  the  poor  boy  was  so 
miserable  that  last  morning — he  was 
too  sick." 

"  Surely  you  must  have  some  plan  ?  " 
"An  officer  on  the  train  last  night 
— a  major  going  up  there  to  join  his 
regiment — he  was  very  kind  to  me, 
lent  me  his  coat  to  keep  me  warm, 
it  was  so  cold.  He  is  a  well-known 
doctor  in  Rome.  Here,  I  have  his 
card  in  my  sack  somewhere.  .  .  .  He 
says  it's  a  matter  of  hours  now  be 
fore  they  begin." 

"Well,"  I  said,  in  a  pause,  hoping 
to  bring  the  signora's  mind  back  to 
the  starting-point.  "What  has  the 
major  to  do  with  your  finding  En 
rico?" 

[60] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"He  told  me  to  inquire  at  Mestre 
or  here  where  Enrico's  train  had 
been  sent.  .  .  .  They  wouldn't  tell  me 
anything  at  the  railroad  station  in 
Mestre.  So  I  must  find  out  here," 
she  ended  inconsequentially. 

"Here  in  Venice?  But  they  won't 
tell  you  a  thing  even  if  they  know. 
You  had  a  better  chance  in  Rome." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  they  wouldn't  tell  his  father 
—he  tried  to  find  out." 

"And  you  couldn't  get  north  of 
Mestre.  It's  all  military  zone  now, 
you  know." 

"Is  it?"  she  answered  vacantly.  "I 
had  to  come,"  she  repeated  like  a 
child,  "and  I  feel  better  already— 
I'm  so  much  nearer  him.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  really  think  I  can  get  to  see  him 
for  a  few  minutes?" 

[61] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

I  spent  a  futile  hour,  while  Giu 
seppe  pushed  us  languidly  through 
the  gray  lagoons,  trying  to  convince 
Signora  Maironi  that  her  search  for 
the  boy  was  worse  than  useless, 
might  easily  land  her  in  prison  should 
she  attempt  to  penetrate  the  lines. 
At  the  end  she  merely  remarked: 

"Rico  expects  me — he  said  that 
last  night, — 'You  will  come  up  north 
to  see  me,  mother,  before  war  is  de 
clared.'" 

Thereat  I  began  again  at  the  be 
ginning  and  tried  more  urgently  to 
distract  the  signora  from  her  pur 
pose. 

"You  might  be  locked  up  as  a 
spy !"  I  concluded. 

"But  I  am  an  Italian  woman— an 
Italian  mother!"  she  cried  indig 
nantly. 

[621 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

Giuseppe  nodded  sympathetically 
over  his  long  sweep  and  murmured 
something  like  "  Evero  /"  It  ended 
by  my  asking  the  old  fellow  if  he 
knew  where  the  office  of  the  Vene 
tian  commandant  was. 

"Sicuro!"  the  old  man  laughed, 
waving  a  hand  negligently  toward 
the  Zattere.  So  we  headed  there.  I 
thought  that  an  hour  or  two  spent 
in  vainly  trying  to  see  the  busy 
gentleman  in  command  of  Venice 
would  probably  do  more  than  any 
thing  else  to  convince  Signora  Mai- 
roni  of  the  futility  of  her  quest.  As 
I  helped  her  to  the  quay  from  the 
gondola  in  front  of  the  old  convent 
which  was  now  the  military  head 
quarters,  she  said  gently,  apologeti 
cally:  "Don't  be  so  cross  with  me, 
signor !  Think  merely  that  I  am  an 

[631 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

old  woman  and  a  mother  with  a  son 
about  to  fight  for  his  country." 

I  saw  her  disappear  within  the  gate 
after  being  questioned  by  the  sen 
tinel;  then  Giuseppe  and  I  waited  in 
the  shadow  of  an  interned  German 
steamship — one,  two,  almost  three 
hours,  until  the  sun  had  set  the 
marble  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
aflame  with  a  flood  of  gold.  Then  I 
heard  Giuseppe  murmuring  trium 
phantly,  "Ecco!  la  rignora  I"  The 
little  black  figure  was  waiting  for  us 
by  the  steps,  a  contented  smile  on 
her  lips. 

"Have  I  been  long?"  she  asked. 

"It  makes  no  difference,  if  you  have 
found  out  something.  Did  you  see 
the  commandant  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  in  a  pleased 
manner. 

[64] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"I  thought  I  should  never  get  to 
him — there  were  so  many  officers 
and  sentinels,  and  they  all  tried  to 
turn  me  off.  But  I  wouldn't  go !  It 
takes  a  great  deal  to  discourage  a 
mother  who  wants  to  see  her  son." 

"And  he  told  you?"  I  asked  impa 
tiently. 

"Heavens,  how  lovely  the  day  is !" 
the  signora  remarked  with  her  pro 
voking  inconsequentiality.  "Let  us 
go  out  to  the  Lido !  Maybe  we  can 
find  a  fisherman's  osteria  at  San 
Nicolo  where  we  can  get  supper  un 
der  the  trees." 

The  gondola  headed  seaward  in  the 
golden  light. 

"It  will  be  a  terrible  war,"  the  si 
gnora  began  presently.  "They  know 
it.  ...  The  commandant  talked  with 
me  a  long  time  after  I  got  to  him, 

[65] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

while  others  waited.  .  .  .  There  are 
many  spies  here  in  Venice,  he  told 
me — Austrians  who  are  hidden  in 
the  city.  .  .  .  He  was  such  a  gentle 
man,  so  patient  with  me  and  kind. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  wept — yes,  cried 
like  a  great  fool !  When  he  told  me 
I  must  return  and  wait  for  news  in 
Rome,  and  I  thought  of  that  long 
ride  back  without  seeing  my  sick 
boy — I  just  couldn't  help  it — I  cried. 
.  .  .  He  was  very  kind." 

In  the  end  the  facts  came  out,  as 
they  always  did  with  the  signora, 
in  her  own  casual  fashion.  The  mili 
tary  commander  of  Venice,  evidently, 
was  a  kind,  fatherly  sort  of  officer, 
with  sons  of  his  own  in  the  army,  as 
he  had  told  the  signora.  After  giving 
the  distracted  mother  the  only  sound 
advice  he  could  give  her — to  resign 

[66] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

herself  to  waiting  for  news  of  her  son 
by  the  uncertain  mails — he  had  let 
fall  significantly,  "But  if  you  should 
persist  in  your  mad  idea,  signora,  I 

should  take  the  train  to ,"  and 

he  mentioned  a  little  town  near  the 
Austrian  frontier  not  three  hours' 
ride  from  Venice. 

"What  will  you  do?"  I  asked  as 
we  approached  the  shore  of  the  Lido. 

"I  don't  know,"  the  signora  sighed. 
"But  I  must  see  Enrico  once  more  !" 

The  Buon'  Pesche,  a  little  osteria 
near  the  waterside,  was  thronged 
with  sailors  from  the  gray  torpedo- 
boats  that  kept  up  a  restless  activity, 
dashing  back  and  forth  in  the  harbor 
entrance.  We  found  a  table  under  a 
plane-tree,  a  little  apart  from  the 
noisy  sailors  who  were  drinking  to 
the  success  of  Italian  arms  in  the 

[671 


purple  wine  of  Padua,  and,  while 
the  dusk  fell  over  distant  Venice, 
watched  the  antics  of  the  swift  de 
stroyers. 

"Don't  they  seem  possessed!"  the 
signora  exclaimed.  "Like  angry  bees, 
as  if  they  knew  the  enemy  was  near." 

We  were  speaking  English,  and  I 
noticed  that  the  country  girl  who 
served  us  looked  at  me  sharply. 
When  we  rose  to  leave  it  was  already 
dark,  the  stars  were  shining  in  the 
velvet  sky,  and  Venice  was  mysteri 
ously  blank.  As  we  strolled  across 
the  grass  toward  the  boat-landing, 
a  man  stepped  up  and  laid  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder,  indicating  firmly 
that  I  should  accompany  him.  He 
took  us  to  the  military  post  at  the 
end  of  the  island,  the  signora  ex 
postulating  and  explaining  all  the 

[68] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

way.  There  we  had  to  wait  in  a  bare 
room  faintly  lighted  by  one  flaring 
candle  while  men  came  and  went 
outside,  looked  at  us,  talked  in  low 
tones,  and  left  us  wondering.  After 
an  hour  of  this  a  young  officer  ap 
peared,  and  with  a  smiling,  nervous 
air  began  a  lengthy  examination. 
Who  was  I?  Who  was  the  signora — 
my  wife,  my  mother?  Why  were  we 
there  on  the  Lido  after  dark,  etc.  ? 
It  was  easy  enough  to  convince  him 
that  I  was  what  I  was — an  amica 
ble,  idle  American.  My  pocketful  of 
papers  and,  above  all,  my  Italian, 
rendered  him  quickly  more  smiling 
and  apologetic  than  ever.  But  the 
signora,  who,  it  seems,  had  not  regis 
tered  on  her  arrival  in  Venice,,  as 
they  had  ascertained  while  we  were 
waiting,  was  not  so  easily  explained, 

[69] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

although  she  told  her  tale  truthfully, 
tearfully,  in  evident  trepidation.  To 
the  young  officer  it  was  not  credible 
that  an  Italian  mother  should  be 
seeking  her  soldier  son  on  the  Lido 
at  this  hour.  Another  officer  was  sum 
moned,  and  while  the  first  young 
man  entertained  me  with  apprecia 
tions  of  English  and  American  au 
thors  with  whose  works  he  was  ac 
quainted,  the  signora  was  put  through 
a  gruelling  examination  which  in 
cluded  her  ancestry,  family  affairs, 
and  political  opinions.  She  was  al 
ternately  angry,  haughty,  and  tear 
ful,  repeating  frequently,  "I  am  an 
Italian  mother!"  which  did  not  an 
swer  for  a  passport  as  well  as  my 
broken  Italian.  In  the  end  she  had 
to  appeal  to  the  kindly  commandant 
who' had  listened  to  her  story  earlier 

[70] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

in  the  day.  After  hearing  the  si- 
gnora's  tearful  voice  over  the  tele 
phone,  he  instructed  the  youthful 
captain  of  artillery  to  let  us  go.  The 
young  officers,  whose  responsibilities 
had  weighed  heavily  on  them,  apolo 
gized  profusely,  ending  with  the  re 
mark:  "You  know  we  are  expecting 
something  to  happen — very  soon ! 
.  .  .  We  have  to  be  careful." 
We  hurried  to  the  landing,  where 
we  found  Giuseppe  fast  asleep  in  the 
gondola,  but  before  we  could  rouse 
him  had  some  further  difficulty  with 
suspicious  carabinieri,  who  were  in 
clined  to  lock  us  up  on  the  Lido  un 
til  morning.  A  few  lire  induced  them 
to  consider  our  adventure  more  leni 
ently,  and  well  past  midnight  the 
sleepy  Giuseppe  swept  us  toward 
the  darkened  city. 

[71] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

"You  might  think  they  were  al 
ready  at  war!"  I  grumbled. 

"Perhaps  they  are,"  the  signora  re 
plied  sadly. 

"Well,  you  see  what  trouble  you 
will  get  into  if  you  attempt  to  enter 
the  war  zone,"  I  warned. 

;'Yes,"  the  subdued  woman  said 
dully,  "I  understand!" 

'That  story  of  yours  doesn't  sound 
probable — and  you  have  no  papers." 

She  sighed  heavily  without  reply, 
but  I  thought  it  well  to  drive  home 
the  point. 

"So  you  had  better  take  the  train 
home  to-morrow  and  not  get  ar 
rested  as  a  spy." 

"Very  well." 

Several  hours  later  I  woke  from  a 
dream  with  the  song  of  a  nightingale 
in  my  ears  mingled  with  a  confused 
[72] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

reverberation.  It  was  not  yet  day; 
in  the  pale  light  before  dawn  the 
birds  were  wheeling  and  crying  in 
the  little  garden  outside  my  room. 
I  stumbled  to  the  balcony  from  which 
I  could  see  the  round  dome  of  the 
Salute  against  the  cloudless  sky  and 
a  streak  of  sunrise  beyond  the  Giu- 
decca.  What  had  cut  short  the  song 
of  the  nightingale?  Suddenly  the 
answer  came  in  the  roar  of  an  ex 
plosion  from  somewhere  within  the 
huddle  of  Venetian  alleys,  followed 
by  the  prolonged  shrieks  of  sirens 
from  the  arsenal  and  the  sputter 
and  crackle  of  countless  guns.  I  did 
not  have  to  be  told  that  this  was 
war !  This  was  what  those  young 
officers  on  the  Lido  were  expecting 
to  happen  before  morning.  Austria 
had  taken  this  way  of  acknowledg- 

[73] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

ing  Italy's  temerity  in  challenging 
her  might:  she  had  sworn  to  destroy 
the  jewelled  beauty  of  Venice,  and 
these  bombs  falling  on  the  sleeping 
city  were  the  Austrian  answer  to 
Italy's  declaration  of  war ! 

Another  and  another  explosion  fol 
lowed  in  rapid  succession,  while  the 
sirens  shrieked  and  the  antiaircraft 
guns  from  palace  roofs  rattled  and 
spluttered  up  and  down  the  Grand 
Canal.  Then  in  a  momentary  lull  I 
could  detect  the  low  hum  of  a  motor, 
and  looking  upward  I  saw  far  aloft 
in  the  gray  heavens  the  enemy  aero 
plane  winging  its  way  like  some 
malevolent  beetle  in  a  straight  line 
across  the  city.  The  little  balconies 
all  about  were  crowded  with  people 
who,  unmindful  of  the  warnings  to 
keep  within  doors,  and  as  near  the 

[741 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

cellar  as  Venetian  dwellings  per 
mitted,  were  gazing  like  myself  into 
the  clear  heavens  after  the  buzzing 
machine.  Their  voices  began  to  rise 
in  eager  comment  as  soon  as  the 
noise  of  bombs  and  guns  died  out. 
I  caught  sight  of  Signora  Maironi 
in  a  group  on  a  neighboring  bal 
cony,  looking  fixedly  at  the  vanish 
ing  enemy. 

Presently,  as  I  was  thinking  that 
the  attack  had  passed,  there  came 
again  the  peculiar  hum  of  another 
aeroplane  from  behind  the  hotel.  It 
grew  louder  and  louder,  and  soon 
came  the  roar  of  exploding  bombs 
followed  by  the  crackle  of  answering 
guns.  One  deafening  roar  went  up 
from  the  canal  near  by,  echoing  back 
and  forth  between  the  palace  walls. 
That  was  very  close,  I  judged !  But 

[751 


THE  CONSCRIFf  MOTHER 

the  signora,  as  if  fascinated,  stood 
there,  gazing  into  space,  waiting  for 
the  evil  machine  to  show  itself. 
Gradually  the  noise  died  down  as 
the  aeroplane  swung  into  view  and 
headed  eastward  like  its  mate  for 
the  open  Adriatic.  A  last,  lingering 
explosion  came  from  the  direction  of 
the  arsenal,  then  all  was  silence  ex 
cept  for  the  twittering  of  the  dis 
turbed  birds  in  the  garden  and  the 
excited  staccato  voices  of  Venetians 
telling  one  another  what  had  hap 
pened. 

Yes,  this  was  war !  And  as  I  hur 
riedly  dressed  myself  I  thought  that 
Signora  Maironi  would  be  lucky  if 
she  got  safely  out  of  Venice  back  to 
her  home.  We  met  over  an  early  cup 
of  coffee.  The  signora,  to  my  sur 
prise,  did  not  seem  in  the  least  fright- 

[76] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

ened — rather  she  had  been  stirred 
to  a  renewed  determination  by  this 
first  touch  of  war. 

"Return  now  without  seeing  my 
boy!"  she  said  scornfully  in  reply 
to  my  suggestion  that  we  go  at  once 
to  the  railroad-station.  "Never  !" 

"This  is  the  first  attack,"  I  pro 
tested,  "y°u  can't  tell  when  they 
will  be  at  it  again,  perhaps  in  a  few 
hours.  ...  It  is  very  dangerous,  si- 
gnora !" 

"I  have  no  fear,"  she  said  simply, 
conclusively. 

So  Giuseppe  took  her  over  to  Mes- 
tre  in  the  gondola.  I  judged  that  it 
would  be  safer  for  her  to  start  on 
her  quest  alone,  depending  solely  on 
her  mother  appeal  to  make  her  way 
through  the  confusion  at  the  front. 

[77] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

She  waved  me  a  smiling  farewell  on 
the  steps  of  the  old  palace,  her  little 
bag  in  one  hand,  looking  like  a  com 
fortable  middle-aged  matron  on  a 
shopping  expedition,  not  in  the  least 
like  a  timid  mother  starting  for  the 
battle  line  in  search  of  her  child. 

And  that  was  the  last  I  saw  of 
Signora  Maironi  for  four  days.  Ordi 
narily,  it  would  not  take  that  many 

hours  to  make  the  journey  to  X . 

But  these  first  days  of  war  there 
was  no  telling  how  long  it  might 
take,  nor  whether  one  could  get 
there  by  any  route.  Had  her  resolu 
tion  failed  her  and  had  she  already 
returned  to  Rome?  But  in  that  case 
she  would  surely  have  telegraphed. 
Or  was  she  detained  in  some  frontier 
village  as  a  spy  ?  .  .  . 

The  morning  of  the  fifth  day  after 

f78l 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

the  signora's  departure  I  was  daw 
dling  over  my  coffee  in  the  deserted 
salone,  enjoying  the  scented  June 
breeze  that  came  from  the  canal, 
when  I  heard  a  light  step  and  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Signora  Maironi 
entered  and  dropped  on  a  lounge, 
very  white  and  breathless,  as  if  she 
had  run  a  long  way  from  somewhere. 
"  Give  me  coffee,  please  !  I  have  had 
nothing  to  eat  since  yesterday  morn 
ing."  And  after  she  had  swallowed 
some  of  the  coffee  I  poured  for  her 
she  began  to  speak,  to  tell  her  story, 
not  pausing  to  eat  her  roll. 

"When  I  left  you  that  morning — 
when  was  it,  a  week  or  a  year  ago? 
— I  seemed  very  courageous,  didn't 
I?  The  firing,  the  danger,  somehow 
woke  my  spirit,  made  me  brave.  But 

[79] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

before  I  started  I  really  wanted  to 
run  back  to  Rome.  Yes,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  idea  of  poor  'Rico  up 
there  in  that  same  danger,  only  worse, 
I  should  never  have  had  the  courage 
to  do  what  I  did.  .  .  .  Well,  we  got 
to  Mestre,  as  Giuseppe  no  doubt 
told  you.  While  I  was  waiting  in  the 
station  for  the  train  to  that  place 
the  commandant  told  me,  I  saw  a 
young  lieutenant  in  the  grenadier 
uniform.  He  was  not  of  'Rico's  com 
pany  or  I  should  have  known  him, 
but  he  had  the  uniform.  Of  course 
I  asked  him  where  he  was  going. 
He  said  he  didn't  know,  he  was  try 
ing  to  find  out  where  the  regiment 
was.  He  had  been  given  leave  to  go 
to  his  home  in  Sardinia  to  bury  his 
father,  poor  boy,  and  was  hurrying 
back  to  join  the  grenadiers.  'If  you 

[80] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

will  stay  with  me,  signora,'  he  said, 
'you  will  find  where  your  boy  is, 
for  you  see  I  must  join  my  regiment 
at  once.'  Wasn't  that  lucky  for  me? 
So  I  got  into  the  same  compartment 
with  the  lieutenant  when  the  train 
came  along.  It  was  full  of  officers. 
But  no  one  seemed  to  know  where 
the  grenadiers  had  been  sent.  The 
officers  were  very  polite  and  kind 
to  me.  They  gave  me  something  to 
eat  or  I  should  have  starved,  for 
there  was  nothing  to  be  bought  at 
the  stations,  everything  had  been 
eaten  clean  up  as  if  the  locusts  had 
passed  that  way !  .  .  .  There  was  one 
old  gentleman — here,  I  have  his  card 
somewhere — well,  no  matter — we 
talked  a  long  time.  He  told  me  how 
many  difficulties  the  army  had  to 
meet,  especially  with  spies.  It  seems 

[81] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

that  the  spies  are  terrible.  The  Aus- 
trians  have  them  everywhere,  and 
many  are  Italians,  alas !  the  ones 
who  live  up  there  in  the  mountains ! 
They  are  arresting  them  all  the 
time.  They  took  a  woman  and  a 
man  in  a  woman's  dress  off  the 
train.  Well,  that  didn't  make  me 
any  easier  in  my  mind,  but  I  stayed 
close  to  my  little  lieutenant,  who 
looked  after  me  as  he  would  his  own 
mother,  and  no  one  bothered  me 
with  questions.  .  .  . 

"Such  heat  and  such  slowness! 
You  cannot  imagine  how  weary  I 
became  before  the  day  was  done. 
Trains  and  trains  of  troops  passed. 
Poor  fellows  !  And  cannon  and  horses 
and  food,  just  one  long  train  after 
another.  We  could  scarcely  crawl. 
...  So  we  reached  X—  -  as  it  was 

[82] 


getting  dark,  but  the  granatieri  were 
not  there.  They  had  been  the  day 
before,  but  had  gone  on  forward 
during  the  night.  To  think,  if  I  had 
started  the  night  before  I  should 
have  found  'Rico  and  had  him  a 
whole  day  perhaps." 

"Perhaps  not,"  I  remarked,  as  the 
signora  paused  to  swallow  another 
cup  of  coffee.  "It  was  all  a  matter 
of  chance,  and  if  you  had  started 
the  day  before  you  would  have 
missed  your  lieutenant." 

"Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it 

but  to  spend  the  night  at  X .  For 

no  trains  went  on  to  Palma  Nova, 
where  the  lieutenant  was  going  in 
the  morning.  So  I  walked  into  the 
town  to  look  for  a  place  to  sleep, 
but  every  bed  was  taken  by  the 
officers,  not  a  place  to  sleep  in  the 

[831 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

whole  town.  It  was  then  after  nine 
o'clock;  I  returned  to  the  station, 
thinking  I  could  stay  there  until  the 
train  started  for  Palma  Nova.  But 
they  won't  even  let  you  stay  in 
railroad-stations  any  longer !  So  I 
walked  out  to  the  garden  in  the 

/s- 

square  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  to 
spend  the  night  there.  Luckily  it 
was  still  warm.  Who  should  come  by 
with  an  old  lady  on  his  arm  but  the 
gentleman  I  had  talked  with  on  the 
train,  Count — yes,  he  was  a  count 
— and  his  mother.  They  had  a  villa 
near  the  town,  it  seems.  'Why,  si- 
gnora  ! '  he  said,  when  he  saw  me  sit 
ting  there  all  alone,  'why  are  you 
out  here  at  this  time?'  And  I  told 
him  about  there  not  being  a  bed 
free  in  the  town.  Then  he  said:  'You 
must  stay  with  us.  We  have  made 

[84] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

our  villa  ready  for  the  wounded,  but, 
thank  God,  they  have  not  begun  to 
come  in  yet,  so  there  are  many 
empty  rooms  at  your  disposal.'  That 
was  how  I  escaped  spending  the 
night  on  a  bench  in  the  public  gar 
den  !  It  was  a  beautiful  villa,  with 
grounds  all  about  it — quite  large. 
They  gave  me  a  comfortable  room 
with  a  bath,  and  that  was  the  last  I 
saw  of  the  count  and  his  mother — 
whatever  were  their  names.  Early 
the  next  morning  a  maid  came  with 
my  coffee  and  woke  me  so  that  I 
might  get  the  train  for  Palma  Nova. 
"That  day  was  too  long  to  tell 
about.  I  found  my  young  lieutenant, 
and  as  soon  as  we  reached  Palma 
Nova  he  went  off  to  hunt  for  the 
granatieri.  But  the  regiment  had  been 
sent  on  ahead !  Again  I  was  just  too 

[85] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

late.  It  had  left  for  the  frontier, 
which  is  only  a  few  miles  east  of  the 
town.  I  could  hear  the  big  cannon 
from  there.  (Oh,  yes,  they  had  be 
gun  !  I  can  tell  you  that  made  me  all 
the  more  anxious  to  hold  my  boy 
once  more  in  my  arms.)  Palma  Nova 
was  jammed  with  everything,  sol 
diers,  motor-trucks,  cannon — such 
confusion  as  you  never  saw.  Every 
thing  had  to  pass  through  an  old 
gate — you  know,  it  was  once  a  Ro 
man  town  and  there  are  walls  and 
gates  still  standing.  About  that  gate 
toward  the  Austrian  frontier  there 
was  such  a  crush  to  get  through  as 
I  never  saw  anywhere ! 

"They  let  no  one  through  that 
gate  without  a  special  pass.  You  see, 
it  was  close  to  the  lines,  and  they 
were  afraid  of  spies.  I  tried  and  tried 

[86] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

to  slip  through,  but  it  was  no  use. 
And  the  time  was  going  by,  and 
Enrico  marching  away  from  me 
always  toward  battle.  I  just  prayed 
to  the  Virgin  to  get  me  through  that 
gate — yes,  I  tell  you,  I  prayed  hard 
as  I  never  prayed  before  in  my  life. 
.  .  .  The  young  lieutenant  came  to 
tell  me  he  had  to  go  on  to  reach  his 
regiment  and  offered  to  take  any 
thing  I  had  for  Enrico.  So  I  gave 
him  almost  all  the  money  I  had 
with  me,  and  the  little  watch  you 
gave  me  for  him,  and  told  him  to  say 
I  should  get  to  him  somehow  if  it 
could  be  done.  The  young  man 
promised  he  would  find  'Rico  and 
give  him  the  things  at  the  first  op 
portunity.  How  I  hated  to  see  him 
disappear  through  that  gate  into 
the  crowd  beyond  !  But  there  was  no 

[87] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

use  trying:  there  were  soldiers  with 
drawn  bayonets  all  about  it.  My 
prayers  to  the  Virgin  seemed  to  do 
no  good  at  all.  .  .  . 

"So  at  the  end,  after  trying  every 
where  to  get  that  special  pass,  I  was 
sitting  before  a  cafe  drinking  some 
milk — everything  is  so  frightfully 
dear,  you  have  no  idea  ! — and  was 
thinking  that  after  coming  so  far  I 
was  not  to  see  my  boy.  For  the  first 
time  I  felt  discouraged,  and  I  must 
have  shown  it,  too,  with  my  eyes  al 
ways  on  that  gate.  An  officer  who  was 
waiting  in  front  of  the  cafe,  walking 
to  and  fro,  presently  came  up  to  me 
and  said:  'Signora,  I  see  that  sorrow 
in  your  eyes  which  compels  me  to 
address  you.  Is  there  anything  a 
stranger  might  do  to  comfort  you?' 
So  I  told  him  the  whole  story,  and 

[88] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

he  said  very  gently:  'I  do  not  know 
whether  I  can  obtain  the  permission 
for  you,  but  I  know  the  officer  who 
is  in  command  here.  Come  with  me 
and  we  will  tell  him  your  desire  to 
see  your  son  before  the  battle,  which 
cannot  be  far  off,  and  perhaps  he 
will  grant  your  request.' 

"Think  of  such  fortune!  The  Vir 
gin  had  listened.  I  shall  always  pray 
with  better  faith  after  this !  Just 
when  I  was  at  the  end,  too  !  The  kind 
officer  was  also  a  count,  Count  Fos- 
cari,  from  here  in  Venice.  He  has  a 
brother  in  the  garrison  here,  and 
there's  a  lady  to  whom  he  wishes  me 
to  give  some  letters.  ...  I  wonder 
if  I  still  have  them!" 

The  signora  stopped  to  investigate 
the  recesses  of  her  little  bag. 

"First,    let    me    know    what    the 

[891 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

Count  Foscari  did  for  you,"  I  ex 
claimed,  tantalized  by  the  signora's 
discursive  narrative.  "Then  we  can 
look  after  his  correspondence  at  our 
leisure." 

"There  they  are!  .  .  .  He  took  me 
with  him  to  the  office  of  the  mili 
tary  commander  of  the  town — a  very 
busy  place  it  was.  But  the  count  just 
walked  past  all  the  sentinels,  and  I 
followed  him  without  being  stopped. 
But  when  he  asked  for  the  pass 
the  commander  was  very  cross  and 
answered,  'Impossible!' — short  like 
that.  Even  while  we  were  there, 
another,  stronger  order  came  over 
the  telegraph  from  the  staff  forbid 
ding  any  civilian  to  pass  through 
the  town.  I  thought  again  it  was  all 
over — I  should  never  see  'Rico.  But 
Count  Foscari  did  not  give  up.  He 

[90] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

just  waited  until  the  commander  had 
said  everything,  then  spoke  very 
gently  to  him  in  a  low  tone  (but  I 
could  hear).  'The  signora  is  an 
Italian  mother.  I  will  give  my  word 
for  that !  She  wants  to  see  her  son, 
who  was  sick  when  he  left  Rome.' 
Then  he  stopped,  but  the  other  offi 
cer  just  frowned,  and  the  count  tried 
again.  'It  is  not  much  good  that 
any  of  us  can  do  now  in  this  life. 
We  are  all  so  near  death  that  it 
seems  we  should  do  whatever  kind 
ness  we  can  to  one  another.'  He 
looked  at  me  more  gently,  but  said 
nothing.  The  commandant's  secre 
tary  was  there  with  the  pass  already 
made  out  in  his  hand — he  had  been 
preparing  it  while  the  others  were 
talking — and  he  put  it  down  on  the 
table  before  the  officer  for  his  signa- 

[911 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

ture.  That  one  turned  his  head,  then 
the  count  gave  a  nod  to  the  secre 
tary,  and  the  kind  young  man  took 
the  seal  and  stamped  it  and  handed 
it  to  me  with  a  little  smile.  And  the 
commandant  just  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders  and  pretended  not  to  see.  The 
count  said  to  him :  '  Thanks !  For  a 
mother.' 

"So  there  I  was  with  my  pass.  I 
thanked  Count  Foscari  and  hurried 
through  that  gate  as  fast  as  my  legs 
would  carry  me,  afraid  that  some 
one  might  take  the  paper  away  from 
me.  What  an  awful  jam  there  was ! 
I  thought  my  legs  would  not  hold 
out  long  on  that  hard  road,  but  I 
was  determined  to  walk  until  I  fell 
before  giving  up  now.  ...  I  must 
have  passed  forty  sentinels;  some  of 
them  stopped  me.  They  said  I  would 

[92] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

be  shot,  but  what  did  I  care  for  that ! 
I  could  hear  the  roaring  of  the  guns 
ahead,  louder  all  the  time,  and  the 
smoke.  It  was  really  battle.  I  began 
to  run.  I  was  so  anxious  lest  I  might 
not  have  time." 

"Were  you  not  afraid?" 

"Of  what?  Of  a  shell  hitting  my 
poor  old  body?  I  never  thought  of 
it.  I  just  felt — little  'Rico  is  on  there 
ahead  in  the  middle  of  all  that.  But 
it  was  beautiful  all  the  same — yes," 
she  repeated  softly,  with  a  strange 
gleam  on  her  tired  face,  "it  was 
beau  and  horrible  at  the  same  time. 
...  I  passed  the  frontier  stones. 
Yes !  I  have  been  on  Austrian  ter 
ritory,  though  it's  no  longer  Aus 
trian  now,  God  be  praised!  I  was 
very  nearly  in  Gradesca,  where  the 
battle  was.  I  should  never  have  got- 

[93] 


THE  CONSCRIFf  MOTHER 

ten  that  far  had  it  not  been  for  a 
kind  officer  in  a  motor-car  who  took 
me  off  the  road  with  him.  How  we 
drove  in  all  that  muddle  !  He  stopped 
when  we  passed  any  troops  to  let 
me  ask  where  the  granatieri  were. 
It  was  always  'just  ahead.'  The 
sound  of  the  guns  got  louder.  ...  I 
was  terribly  excited  and  so  afraid 
I  was  too  late,  when  suddenly  I 
saw  a  soldier  bent  over  a  bicycle  rid 
ing  back  down  the  road  like  mad. 
It  was  my  'Rico  coming  to  find  me! 
...  I  jumped  out  of  the  motor  and 
took  him  in  my  arms,  there  beside 
the  road.  .  .  .  God,  how  he  had 
changed  already,  how  thin  and  old 
his  face  was !  And  he  was  so  excited 
he  could  hardly  speak,  just  like 
'Rico  always,  when  anything  is  going 
on.  *  Mother,'  he  said,  'I  wanted  so 

[94] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

to  see  you.  You  told  me  you  might 
come  up  here,  and  I  looked  for  you 
all  along  where  the  train  stopped, 
at  Bologna  and  Mestre  and  Palma 
Nova.  But  I  couldn't  find  you.  This 
morning  I  knew  you  would  come — 
I  knew  it  when  I  woke.'  (Don't  you 
see  I  was  right  in  keeping  on?)  .  .  . 
The  young  lieutenant  had  told  'Rico 
I  was  looking  for  him,  and  they  let 
him  come  back  on  his  bicycle  to  find 
me.  Poor  boy,  he  was  so  excited  and 
kept  glancing  over  his  shoulder  after 
his  regiment !  *  You  see,  mamma,* 
he  said,  '  this  is  a  real  battle  !  We  are 
at  the  front !  And  our  regiment  has 
the  honor  to  make  the  first  attack ! ' 
He  was  so  proud,  the  poor  boy !  .  .  . 
Of  course  I  could  not  keep  him  long 
—five  minutes  at  the  most  I  had 
with  him  there  by  the  side  of  the 

[95] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

highroad,  with  all  the  noise  of  the 
guns  and  the  passing  wagons.  Five 
minutes,  but  I  would  rather  have 
died  than  lost  those  minutes.  ...  I 
put  your  watch  on  his  wrist.  He  was 
so  pleased  to  have  it,  with  the  illumi 
nated  hands  which  will  give  him  the 
time  at  night  when  he  is  on  duty. 
He  wrote  you  a  .few  words  on  this 
scrap  of  paper,  all  I  had  with  me, 
leaning  on  my  knee.  I  took  his  old 
watch — the  father  will  want  it.  It 
had  been  next  his  heart  and  was  still 
warm.  .  .  .  Then  he  kissed  me  and 
rode  back  up  the  road  as  fast  as  he 
could  go.  The  last  I  saw  was  when 
he  rode  into  a  cloud  of  dust.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  the  signora  concluded,  after 
a  long  pause,  "that  is  all!  I  found 
my  way  back  here  somehow.  I  have 
been  through  the  lines,  on  Austrian 

[96] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

territory,  almost  in  battle  itself — 
and  I  have  seen  my  boy  again,  the 
Virgin  be  praised  !  And  I  am  con 
tent.  Now  let  God  do  with  him  what 
he  will." 

Later  we  went  in  search  of  Count 
Foscari's  brother  and  the  lady  to 
whom  he  had  sent  his  letters.  Then 
Giuseppe  and  I  took  the  signora  to 
the  train  for  Rome.  As  I  stood  be 
side  the  compartment,  the  signora, 
who  seemed  calmer,  more  like  her 
self  than  for  the  past  fortnight,  re 
peated  dreamily:  "My  friend,  I  have 
seen  'Rico  again,  and  I  am  content. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall 
have  him  in  my  arms,  unless  the 
dear  God  spares  him.  And  I  know 
now  what  it  is  he  is  doing  for  his  coun 
try,  what  battle  is  !  He  is  fighting  for 
me,  for  all  of  us.  I  am  content !" 

[97] 


THE  CONSCRIPT  MOTHER 

With  a  gentle  smile  the  signora 
waved  me  farewell. 

Enrico  came  out  of  that  first  battle 
safely,  and  many  others,  as  little  Bi- 
anca  wrote  me.  She  and  the  signora 
were  making  bandages  and  feeding 
their  thirsty  hearts  on  the  reports  of 
the  brave  deeds  that  the  Italian  troops 
were  doing  along  the  Isonzo.  "They 
are  all  heroes !"  the  girl  wrote.  "But 
it  is  very  hard  for  them  to  pierce 
those  mountains  which  the  Austrians 
have  been  fortifying  all  these  years. 
There  is  perpetual  fighting,  but  En 
rico  is  well  and  happy,  fighting  for 
Italy.  Yesterday  we  had  a  postal 
from  him:  he  sent  his  respects  to 
you.  .  .  ." 

Thereafter,  there  was  no  news  from 
the  Maironis  for  many  weeks;  then 

[98] 


in  the  autumn  came  the  dreaded 
black-bordered  letter  in  the  signora's 
childish  hand.  It  was  dated  from 
some  little  town  in  the  north  of 
Italy  and  written  in  pencil. 

"I  have  been  in  bed  for  a  long 
time,  or  I  should  have  written  be 
fore.  Our  dear  Enrico  fell  the  3d  of 
August  on  the  Col  di  Lana.  He  died 
fighting  for  Italy  like  a  brave  man, 
his  captain  wrote.  .  .  .  Bianca  is  here 
nursing  me,  but  soon  she  will  go 
back  to  Padua  into  the  hospital, 
and  I  shall  go  with  her  if  there  is 
anything  that  a  poor  old  woman  can 
do  for  our  wounded  soldiers.  .  .  . 
Dear  friend,  I  am  so  glad  that  I 
saw  him  once  more — now  I  must 
wait  until  paradise.  ..." 


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